Chapter 3
From the loathesome dens whose scenes appal, Whose tainted breath's the Simoom's blast; Away on the dizzying, surf-washed rock, Pausing a moment upon the brink-- Pausing a moment perchance to think; Sliding the bolt in Memory's lock, And back in its dusty, haunted hall, Living again the vanished past-- Living her happy childhood o'er; Chasing the butterflies over the flowers, Petted and loved, a girl again, Dreaming away the golden hours; Living again another scene, Flattered and toasted "beauty's queen;" Taking again, with a merry laugh, From gallant hands a sparkling draught. O, angels, tell her 'tis a draught of woe! That _ruin_ lies in its amber glow. Over the rest let oblivion fall, Cover it up with a funeral pall; Turn away with a shudder and groan, Let her live it over alone. Few are the months, as they count, since then; Short and joyous they else had been That to anguished heart and maddened brain Are long decades of woe and pain. Over, again, on the wings of thought, Treading the path which her ruin wrought; Over again each step she went, From the sunny home to the swift descent, Where sin lies hidden 'neath a gilded pile, Down to the haunts of the low and vile. One more step and it all is done. Only a shriek the midnight breaks-- Only a splash in the waves below, A wider ripple the water makes. The rock is bare by the ocean side-- A death-white face with the ebbing tide Is floating away from the headland bold-- Out in the cold.
A lifeless form, in the wintry dawn, Left on the sand by a rising swell; A story of weakness, shame, and wrong Mutely the frozen features tell. Noiseless falls on it, the tears of dew, Over it softly the breezes blow; Wavelets, kissing the tangled hair, Murmur a requiem sad and low. Out to the barren, bleak hillside Rough hands bear it with scorn and jest. Cradled once in a mother's arms-- Once by a mother's fond lips pressed-- Under the clods of a new-made grave; A rough-hewn board at the foot and head, Where never a flower of love shall wave; Left with the city's nameless dead-- Left with her fate unwept, untold-- Out in the cold.
* * * * *
TO JENNIE.
Farewell my darling, fare thee well, Life hence has only dearth; With thee it were too sweet a dream-- Too much Heaven, for earth. Thou dost not know the depth of pain This parting gives to me, Nor how, as time drags weary on, My soul will sigh for thee.
Each loved one that thou leavest here, Some other love may wear, Each heart will have some other heart Its loneliness to share. But I have nothing, darling, left-- You're all the world to me-- And only God and Heaven can know The love I give to thee.
WATCHING THE SHADOWS.
Watching the shadows, the fire-light shadows, That gather and play on the wall; Dark, flitting shadows, fanciful shadows, That gather and rise and fall. Reading the fire shadows' language of shadows, Pages of darkness and light-- Watching, watching, Watching the shadows to-night.
Watching the shadows, the fire-light shadows, That over the wall fitful play; Dreaming of shadows, dreaming of shadows, Deep darker shadows than they. Heart-shading shadows, soul-darkening shadows, Flitting in memory's light-- Dreaming, dreaming, Watching the shadows to-night.
Watching the shadows, the fire-light shadows, Merrily dancing about, Wondering if heart-shadows vanish like shadows, When life's fitful flame has gone out; Wondering if shadows are deep, darker shadows, Aeons of ages of blight; Wondering, wondering, Watching the shadows to-night.
I GIVE THEE BACK MY HEART.
I give thee back thy fickle heart, Thy faithless vows I've spurned, I bury deep the blighted hopes That in my bosom burned.
Yet who had thought a brow so fair, From guile so seeming free, A voice so sweet, so winning rare, So treacherous could be?
Who would have dreamed a form that seemed Proud Honor's templed shrine, Could hold within an urn of sin A soul so false as thine?
Nor strange 'twould be, if ne'er again, Till age had wasted youth, That heart betrayed by such as thou, Could trust in human truth.
But go! and though thy wiles no more Will move my heart to strife, Canst glad thy vain soul with the thought That thou hast wrecked a life.
LIGHT BEYOND.
Is your heart bowed down with sorrow; Does your lot the hardest seem; Think you of a brighter morrow, Of a fairer future dream.
Have your prospects all been blighted; Has each promise proved a snare; Deepest wrongs are sometime righted, Never yield you to despair.
Has the slanderer's tongue unsparing Ruthless tarnished with its stain; Was your good name worth the wearing-- Go and win it back again.
Would you rest where sunshine lingers; You must toil the darkness through; Only work with willing fingers, Only live you brave and true.
Never care or trouble borrow, "Trouble's real if it seems"-- Ever see a bright to-morrow, Though you see it but in dreams.
A NEGLECTED "WOMAN'S RIGHT."
I have listened to this cry of "Woman's Rights," this clamoring for the ballot, for redress for woman's wrongs, and I could but think, amid it all, that there is one "woman's right"--the right that could make the widest redress for woman's wrongs--which she holds in her own hands and does not exercise. It is the right to defend, to uplift and ennoble womankind; to be as lenient to a plea for mercy from a fallen woman as though that plea had come from the lips of a fallen man; to throw around her also the broad mantle of charity, and if she would try to reform, give her a chance. Far be it from any honest woman to countenance the abandoned wretch who plies an unholy calling in defiance of all morality, for her very breath is contamination; but why should you greet with smiles and warmest handclasps of friendship the man who pays his money for her blackened soul? When two human beings ruled by the same mysterious nature, have yielded to temptations and fallen, what is this monster of social distinction that excuses the sin of one as a folly or indiscretion, while it makes that of the other a crime, which a lifetime cannot retrieve? It is a strange justice that condones the fault of one while it condemns the other even to death; that gives to one, when dead, funeral rite and Christian burial and to the other the Morgue and a dishonored grave, simply because one is a strong man and the other a weak woman. And it is a stranger, sadder truth that 'tis woman's influence which metes out this justice to woman. Mother, if you must look with scorn and contempt upon the woman who through her love for some man has gone down to destruction, do not smilingly acknowledge her paramour a worthy suitor for your own unsullied daughter. Maiden, if you must sneeringly raise your white hand and push back into the depths of pollution the woman who seeks to reinstate herself in the path of rectitude, do not permit the man who keeps half a dozen mistresses to clasp his arm around your waist and whirl you away to the soft measure of the "Beautiful Blue Danube." If the ban of society forbids that you say to a penitent sin-sick sister, "Go and sin no more," if you must consign her to the life of infamy which inevitably follows the deaf ear which you turn upon her appeal, then do it; but in God's name do not turn around and throw open the doors of your homes and welcome to the sanctity of your family altars the man who enticed her to ruin. Ah, woman, by your tireless efforts you may win the right to vote, your voice may be heard in the Assembly Halls of the Nation; but if you administer as one-sided a justice in political life as you do in social life, the reform for which you pray will never come!
WOULD YOU CARE?
All day on my pillow I wearily lay, With a stabbing pain at my heart, With throbbing temples, and a feverish thirst Burning, my lips apart. If I longed for a touch of your soft, strong hand, For you one little minute there; For a smile, or a kiss, or a word to bless, Would you blame me, love?--would you care?
When the long, long, lonesome day was done, And you never for a moment came, If I tried to shut you out of my heart, Impatient at your name; If disappointment's bitter sting Was harder than pain to bear, If I turned away with a doubting frown, Would you blame me, love?--would you care?
Should I die to-night, and you saw me not Again till my soul had fled With its vain request, and my features wore The white hue of the dead-- Would you place just once, in a last caress, Your hand on my death-damp hair? Would you give me a thought, or a fond regret? Would you kiss me, love?--would you care?
A THOUGHT OF HEAVEN.
Friend of my heart, you say to me That your belief is this-- The heaven is but a vision rare Of pure, ethereal bliss.
And life there but a dream enhanced, Where never sound alarms; Where flowers ne'er fade and skies ne'er cloud, And voiceless music charms--
And save as see we in our dreams The dear ones gone before, The friends that here we knew and loved, We'll know and love no more.
An endless and unbroken rest, Nor change, nor night, nor day, Where aimless, as in sleep, we'll dream Eternity away.
Sweet friend of mine, that Heaven of thine Methinks if overblest; We could not work on earth enough To need so long a rest.
Our human nature could not be Content with rest like this, And even bliss could cloy, if we Had nothing else but bliss.
Great Nature's hand, in every plan, Had laid in wise design, But what design, or use, is in This theory of thine?
If, when our earth-career is done, All conscious life must cease, And we drift on, and on, and on, In endless, dreamy peace--
If Heaven is but a mystic spell, Whose glowing visions thrall, Why should we have a life beyond? Why have a Heaven at all?
CONSOLANCE.
"Be brave?" why, yes, I will; I'll never more despair; Who could, with such sweet comforting as yours? How, like the voice that stilled the tempest air, Your mild philosophy its reasoning pours.
Go you and build a temple to the skies, and make Your soul an alter-offering on the pile; Then, from its lightning-riven ruin, take Your crushed and bleeding self, and calmly smile.
When loud, and fierce, and wild, a storm sweeps o'er your rest, Say that it soothes you--brings you peace again; Laugh while the hot steel quivers in your breast, And "make believe" you love the scorching pain.
See every earthly thing your life is woven round, Fall, drop by drop, until your heart is sieved! Go mad and writhe, and moan upon the ground, And curse, and die, and say that you have prayed and lived!
Then come to me, as now, and I will take your hand, And look upon your face and smile and say: "All were not born to hold a magic wand; Cheer up, my friend, you must be brave always."
WHEN THE ROSES GO.
You tell me you love me; you bid me believe That never such lover could mean to deceive. You tell me the tale which a million times Has been told, and talked, and sung in rhymes; You rave o'er my "eyes" and my "beautiful hair," And swear to be true, as they always swear; But the wrinkles will grow, and the roses go, And lovers are rovers oft, you know, When the roses go.
I have heard of a woman, sweet and fair, With dewy lips and shining hair, And you pledged to her, on your bended knee, The self-same vow you make to me. She was fairer than I, I know; She was pure and true, and she loved you so; But the wrinkles will grow and the roses go-- How she learned that trouble comes, _you know_, When the roses go.
You're a man in each outward sense, I trow, With the stamp of a god on your peerless brow. You hold my hand in your thrilling clasp, And my heart grows weak in your subtle grasp, Till I blush in the light of your tender eyes, And dream of a far-of paradise-- Almost forgetting that ever from there Another was turned in her bleak despair. But the wrinkles will grow, and the roses go-- I will answer you, love, my love, you know, When the roses go.
* * * * *
THE DIFFERENCE.
With odds all against him, struggling to gain, From fortune a name, with life to maintain, Toiling in sunshine, toiling in rain, Never waiting a blessing Heaven-sent, Working and winning his way as he went-- Whether he starved, or sumptuously fared, Nobody knew and nobody cared.
With success-crowned effort that fate had defied, That wrought out from fortune what favor denied, Standing aloof from the world in his pride; The niche he has carved on fame's slippery wall Friends are proclaiming with heraldry-call. His Croesus-bright scepter has magical sway, Yester's indifference solicits to-day. His daring his triumph, how daily he fares, Every one knows, and anxiously cares.
BEWARE.
Beautiful maiden, So daintily fair, Thy rose-hued lips, Thy soft, flowing hair, Symmetric perfection, Sweet, winning face, The charms that thou wearest A palace might grace; And yet thy bright beauty May wreck and despair. Beautiful maiden, Beware! oh, beware!
There are flattering tongues That 'twere death to believe, And loves who woo But to win and deceive; For innocent feet There is many a snare. Beautiful maiden, Beware! oh, beware!
A REGRET.
Close on my heart was resting A sunny golden head, As the dim gray of the twilight Crept round with noiseless tread.
"Tell me a 'tory, mamma," The blue-eyed baby said, "About some itty birdie In za itty birdie bed.
"'Bout fen oo was itty An'ze mens was walkin' hay An' found free ittie birdies Wiz za muzzer don away."
"Some other time, my darling; Mamma's tired now." A shade of disappointment Swept over the baby's brow.
The dear blue eyes grew misty; O, lips that lived to blame, That kissed and whispered "sometime"-- That "sometime" never came.
Again, the dim, gray twilight Creeps round with noiseless tread, But on my heart is resting No sunny golden head.
No sweet voice pleads with mamma "Tell me a 'tory" now, And only death can take away The shadow on my brow.
* * * * *
"IT IS LIFE TO DIE."
"It is life to die," the muse has sung, The prophet words have rung from pole to pole, The trust, the hope to which many have clung, An echo woke in many a weary soul.
"Ah! welcome thrice if but that death would come As sweeps the avalanche from Alpine hight, As falls the flashing storm-sent lightning-bolt, Resistless in its terror and its might.
"But oh! to die by slowest slow decay, To clothe a dying heart in life's warm breath, When every day repeats a long eternity, And every hour is but another death!"
O, God! why were we born to live a life, From very thought of which our souls must shrink, To sink down in the waves of human strife, And ever only wait, and wait, and think.
No wonder that so many hapless ones, Too sensitive the specter to defy, Arm, Hamlet-like, against a sea of woes, And test the truth, that "it is life to die."
* * * * *
O, SPEAK IT NOT.
O, speak not hastily the word Thine ear from idle tongues has heard. If false the tale thou couldst recall, How hard, and cruel must it fall? If true, why, helping it along Will never, never right the wrong. O, speak it not, not speak the word That wounds, though but in jest 'tis heard; Keep back the thrust, the look askance, The petty doubt, the sneering glance; Keep back the taunts and jeers, Life has enough of breaking hearts, Of pointed barbs and venomed darts-- Enough of pain and tears.
A SHATTERED IDOL.
O blame me not for the cruel words In a moment of madness said; The shadow that fell upon my life Is cold as the shrouded dead. Deem not I am hard and heartless; My tears are as warm as thine; 'Twas clay that I crowned and worshipped, And wept o'er its crumbled shrine.
To me, my passionate, deathless soul, Was less than his finger-tips; He turned away fro the gold of my love For the dross on a wanton's lips. My faith in his truth is broken-- Even truth itself is a lie. I have cursed him!--but I love him, And I'll love him till I die.
POOR LITTLE JOE.
A ring on the door bell, Some one at the door, Mute asking admittance Where never before A stranger in midnight, In silence and stealth, Sought access to gain In a mansion of wealth. Into the gaslight A package is borne; Quickly from round it The wrappings are torn. What is it? a baby! What seek you to-night, So rosy and smiling, Nor in fear, nor in fright?
Ah! little intruder, What is it you wear So close to your breast? Sure but hand in despair Could have written the message Unconscious you bear, And "loved" and "God blessed" you While leaving you there. Let's see the story 'Tis telling for you; How brief and pathetic; But can it be true? A mother heart brokenly Praying in grief From hand of a stranger Her baby's relief. "He's helpless and homeless, But stainless as snow; O, take him and keep him-- My poor little Joe."
That's all there is of it, If false or if true; Yet long enough seems it, And sad enough, too. No love-welcomed greeted The sweet baby face, In the life that gave his life There was not a place. No place for the baby, There's none for him here, No heart that may give him A smile or a tear. Off to the refuge, For such, he must go, He's only a foundling-- Poor little Joe.
Deserted, forsaken, Thrust out in the strife, Adrift on the pitiless Ocean of life. What will become of him, Who may decide If good or if evil His life shall betide. No tender caresses Ever to know, Nor guidance, nor blessing-- Poor little Joe.
* * * * *
FATE.
Ruth was a laughing-eyed prattler, Thoughtless, and happy, and free; She planted a seed in the garden, And said: "It will grow to a tree-- A beautiful blossoming tree."
The birds and the squirrels played round it, As careless and merry was she, But not tree ever grew from her planting-- No beautiful blossoming tree.
Ruth was a winsome-faced maiden, Happy, and hopeful, and free; She planted a seed in the garden, And smilingly waited to see-- A beautiful blossoming tree.
She covered the ground up with flowers, The butterfly came, and the bee, But no tree ever grew from her planting-- No beautiful blossoming tree.
Ruth was a pale saddened woman, Thoughtful, with tremblings and fears, She planted a seed in the garden, And watered the place with her tears-- And watched it with tremblings and fears.
The winds and the rains beat upon it, The lightnings flashed o'er it in glee; But she sleeps 'neath the tree of her planting-- A beautiful blossoming tree.
THE GHOSTS IN THE HEART.
They came in the hush of the midnight, In the glare of the noonday start Out from the graves we made them-- The graves we made in the heart.
There is love with its fickle fancies; Its grave was so wide and deep, And we heaped the mound with oblivion, But the soul of love could not sleep.
And hate! ah, we buried it deeper Than all the rest of the train; But one word through memory flashing, And its ghost comes back again.
There are phantoms of sunshiny hours That fled when the summer time fled, And specters that mock while they haunt us, Long buried, but never dead.
And ever and ever an hour Will come that the heart-wraiths control, Till down from Eternity's tower A banshee shall ring for the soul.
ONLY A TRAMP.
Only a tramp by the roadside dead, Only a tramp--who cares? His feet are bare, his dull eyes stare, And the wind plays freaks with his unkempt hair. The sun rose up and the sun went down, But nobody missed him from the town Where he begged for bread 'till the day he was dead. He's only a tramp--who cares? Only a tramp, a nuisance gone. One more tramp less--who cares?
Ghastly and gray, in the lane all day, A soiled, dead heap of human clay. Would the wasted crumbs in the rich man's hall, Where the gas-lights gleam and the curtains fall, Have given him a longer lease of breath-- Have saved the wretch from starving to death? He's only a tramp--who cares?
Only a tramp! was he ever more Than a beggar tramp? Who cares? Was the hard-lined face ever dimpled and sweet? Has a mother kissed those rough brown feet, And thought their tramping a sweeter strain Than ever will waken his ear again? Does somebody kneel 'way over the sea, Praying "Father, bring back my boy to me?" Does somebody watch and weep and pray For the tramp who lies dead in the lane to-day? He's only a tramp--who cares?
* * * * *
PUT FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE.
When dead, no imposing funeral rite, Nor line of praise I crave; But drop your tears upon my face-- Put flowers on my grave.
Close not in narrow wall the place In which my heart finds rest, Nor mark with tow'ring monument The sod above my breast.
Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab A burning thought or deed, Or word of love, or praise, or blame, For stranger eyes to read.
But deep, deep in your heart of hearts, A tender mem'ry save; Upon my dead face drop your tears-- Put flowers on my grave.
OLD AUNT LUCY.
Why into that darkened chamber Walk you with such noiseless tread? No slumbering one will awaken-- The sheeted form is dead.
Why gaze on the rigid features, So white in death's embrace, With such look of awe and pity? 'Tis only the same old face.
Why touch you now so tender The hands that silent lay? They're only the sunburned fingers That toiled for you night and day.
Why now, with your tear-dimmed vision, So softly do you press Upon the wrinkled forehead Your lips in sad caress?
How much of care had lighted That lingering, loving kiss, Had you in life but gave it-- You never thought of this.
No loving hand e'er brightened Her life with tender care, No mother's baby-kisses Were ever hers to share.
Only for others caring, The long, long years have fled; Now, only, they say,--the neighbors-- "Poor old Aunt Lucy's dead."
And they whisper a girl's ambition, A name in the world to make; 'Way back in her vanished youth-time, Gave up for a duty's sake.
But whatever had been the story Of love, or grief, or woe, It died with the heart, and no one Will ever care or know.
The hands were hard and toil-stained, And sallow the cheeks and chin, But whiter not the snow-wreath Than the soul that dwelt within.
And methinks a crown resplendent-- Just over the waveless sea-- With gems of self-denial, Awaits for such as she.
UNSPOKEN WORDS.
Unspoken words may thrill the heart, Their meaning be more deeply felt Than all the glowing oratory Poured at the shrine where reason knelt. The fairest pictures art conceives, The noblest sentiments of mind, The loveliest, purest gems of thought Are those which never are defined.
The hand that paints the rainbow dyes Ne'er leaves a trace its skill to show-- The art that gilds the sunset skies And tints the flower, we may not know. Nor may we know the wizard power Which o'er our being wields control, Nor how, when silence seals the lips, Heart speaks to heart and soul to soul.
We do not know from whence the life Imbued in crystal drop of rain, Nor why, when torn and trampled on, The rose's fragrance will remain. Nor know we why the tender tone Will linger when love's dream is fled, Now why the smile we loved will live, Although the face it wreathed will be dead.
Some strangely fascinating spell Steals o'er the heart in ethic's hour; We know not what, nor how, nor why, Still must we own we feel its power-- A power that wakens slumbering dreams, Intangible emotion swells, That penetrates the soul's deep fount, And greets the tide that from it wells.